


Under Black Pines

by Lairenuriel



Category: Angbang - Fandom, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Horror, Other, Violence, a little of each
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 20:32:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8768251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lairenuriel/pseuds/Lairenuriel
Summary: This is my challenge to myself - smutless Angbang.  After his defeat by Huan, Mairon fled to Taur-un-Fuin in the form of a vampiric bat and nothing more is heard of him until the end of the First age.





	

Heavy boots stirred through the thick pine mast. No other sound competed with the hesitant shuffling of a dozen wary Yrch. Down deep black lanes between ancient, gnarled pine trees, not a whisper, not a peep, not a rustle: this unnatural silence pervaded the deep wood. The Yrch clustered together tightly, edging their way further along root-strewn paths winding directly into Taur-un-Fuin’s lightless heart.

With many a suppressed growl, they urged one another towards more perfect silence. Their commander pulled his blows, hitting lightly as to make the least noise while discouraging nervous whispers. As they entered a small clearing, something crunched thinly under foot. Immediately, the entire patrol went still. Looking down, the hatchet-orc squinted and poked his toe at the small, fragmented gray lump shattered beneath his foot. Then he pushed forward to find another half concealed in the thick, dry bed of rusty needles. A marmoset, or weasel, it had once been but now it crackled quietly at each faint prod.

The entire floor of this little clearing lay scattered with mummified carcasses. Tiny, twisted gray shapes still recognizable as birds, squirrels, voles, rats, mice, ferrets, marmosets, fishers…. Heads came down, shoulders went up, and they carefully used their weapons to push the desiccated corpses out of their path. At a signal from their commander, they pressed on.

They reached the start of boggy ground and abruptly froze when their steps suddenly squelched beneath them. Heads craned, panic widened eyes darted along the heavy gnarled trees, and one cried out, “ There!” using his iron hook to point.

A pair of faint orange lights flickered then disappeared beneath the fetid surface.

“ Nothing there,”

“ I saw it,”

“ I saw it, too!”

“ Shut your fucking gobs,” hissed the commander, hard enough to flick them with spittle.

“ There!” another pointed out over the stinking black water just in time for two faint yellow-orange glints to vanish.

“ No,” groaned a thin little goblin, “ There!” pointing to a third spot. As he spoke, a cold mist formed and rose from the deep bog. Eddying and circling, the chilled gray mass surrounded the cluster of Yrch. Backs pressed together, they rotated in a confused circle, staring, pointing, groaning, as their harried commander spit out soft harsh orders, “ Stay together, keep your eyes open….listen!”

The mist thickened until each orc could not see his fellow at his side, and as an ungainly mob they tried to edge their way back from whence they came. Dark gray currents swirled, there came the faintest noise, like paper rustling, and then an angular shadow flashed soundlessly over the dank water. There was a hollow, rasping snarl, one orc tried to screech but the shrill noise ended in a loud gurgle somewhere much deeper into the dark bog.

“ Groed?” a voice exclaimed, the thin goblin whipping around, “ Groed? He’s gone, he’s gone,” exploded out of the hunched figure in a thin rattle of panic.

“ Retreat, retreat – MOVE!” the commander snarled, and the small cluster of misshapen troops bolted for their very lives. There were no curses, only rapid, panicked gasps as heavy boots pounded the mast covered ground. Orange tinted pine needles kicked up high in their wake.

There came a startled bellow but it stopped mid-cry. None looked around to see who had fallen. All heard the heavy rasping slide and rippling splash behind them and they drove themselves harder. One by one, each fell.

Only the hatchet-bearing orc made it to the edge of the dense wood, but even then he did not halt. Though battle trained and hardened, he strove beneath a terrible, pounding panic. Beneath loud, whistling gasps, driving the burning muscles of his thighs, was the desperate need to put as much space as possible between himself and the shadow that had picked off his comrades. Eerily silent, impossibly strong, unseen but for the quickest flashes of those hellish orange eyes…

“ Enough.” Melkor released the orc’s quivering jaw, breaking eye contact, and shoved the creature harshly away. The soldier crashed down the steps of the raised dais. He pulled himself to his knees as quickly as he could, head bowed low so his forehead touched the polished obsidian floor.

“ Forgive me, my King?! It was fast – faster than an eye can follow! And it made not a sound…but it burst forth from the bog and then it was everywhere – it came from the trees above, the trees around, I swear – I swear, Lord, once it even arose from solid earth!”

Melkor’s armor creaked faintly in the silence that followed this outburst. Wordlessly, the Vala began to descend the steps, seemingly oblivious to the blubbering orc who, far beyond panic into true terror, now spewed unsolicited information:

“ We found no sign of him, not a wolf, not a bat, nothing!” Rattled out, growing thinner and faster, “ I swear, o Dread King!”

As Melkor reached the final stair, he made eye-contact with the Balrog who guarded the throne room’s huge iron portals. The demon straightened and as he began to walk forward, Melkor’s steel tipped foot came down square upon the blithering orc’s head. It popped, the loud percussion echoing between obsidian walls, causing the volcanic glass to ring, and fragmented skull crunched beneath Melkor’s good foot.

“ Master?” Kosomot halted before the Vala. 

Melkor limped forward, one boot leaving a red greasy stain behind him, and motioned gracefully, “ What think you, Captain?”

“ I think they found him. As did the last patrol, and the one before that.” Kosomot opined. “ He must be getting stronger – only one escaped.”

“ Yes, I concur.” Melkor nodded slowly. He moved his injured foot with delicacy, careful to keep his weight on the heel, as he walked towards the massive doors. The Balrog waited a moment before he followed: taking his place a respectful step behind his black-armored Lord.

“ Is he still,” 

“ Hiding from me – yes.”

Kosomot, wisely, held his tongue.

“ Assemble another ‘search party’. Send them immediately. The largest and strongest you can put claws on.”

“ Yes, my Lord.”

“ By the time they arrive, he’ll be strong enough to ensure that none return.”

“ We can hope so, my Lord!” The Balrog responded. He looked back at the semi-circular table that faced the raised dais and its iron throne. Scrolls of vellum and parchment sat uneasily in teetering piles alongside melted wax tablets, discarded quills, and spilled inkwells.

“ I will go for him myself when the time is nigh.” Melkor mused. They parted in the doorway. Kosomot strode off to gather a fresh patrol of Yrch to send to Taur-un-Fuin. Melkor limped heavily down the pitch-black corridor into Angband’s deep heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Lairenuriel is musinshadw on Tumblr.


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